


In Which Jellicoe Lends A Hand

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: (is that a thing?), Bad Matchmaking, Cricket, Doodles, Jellicoe Loves Gossip and Drama, Love squares, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: EDIT: may not have been clear, but the way I saw it was that Mike calls Psmith "girlish" not because Psmith is, like, overly feminine or anything, but more because he's not quite yet at the point where he can admit that he finds himattractive, per se, so he just goes for the closest thing his mind provides, which is girlish. Anyway.hmu with other fic ideashere!





	In Which Jellicoe Lends A Hand

Jellicoe was not of the overly observant type. He could, when pressed, identify one or two common constellations and different styles of cricket bowling; but his was not the sharp, eagle eye. No, Jellicoe was more of the variety of boy who will vaguely understand a concept which is told him several times, with demonstration, but will not be able to repeat said concept the following day nor even, perhaps, the following hour. Such was his fate. Thus it was that when he was presented with a certain Affair, he found himself gazing at it not in the clear light of discernment, but rather with that muddled gawking of assumption and miscomprehension. It all began in this way.

“I say, Smith?” Jellicoe called out as he walked into the dormitory one clear August evening. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of that Latin page Downing assigned yesterday? I thought I put mine in my trouser pocket but I can’t find it.”

Psmith—who was seated on his bed absentmindedly doodling in a book—looked up. “Ah, Comrade Jellicoe, how wonderful of you to arrive. I was only just now wondering when another of my dormitory-mates would appear. It is awfully taxing on the nerves to sit by one’s lonesome in anticipation, don’t you think, Comrade? But of course you do, or else you would not have sought out my company. From far and wide voices cry out, ‘Psmith soothes and cures all ails! If you will only seek out Psmith, your woes will disappear! Purchase a specialty bottle for the paltry price of five quid!’”

Psmith closed the book in his lap and adjusted his monocle. “Now, Comrade Jellicoe, what can I do for you?”

Jellicoe sat down and began untying his shoelaces. “I was only wondering if you had a copy of that Latin page Downing assigned yesterday. I thought I put mine in my pocket but I’ve lost it.”

Psmith tsked. “Shameful, Comrade Jellicoe, quite shameful. Never place anything valuable in a pocket, as my father always says. If only you had had the foresight to place your page in a more secure location, this would not have happened. See the error, Comrade Jellicoe, and correct yourself accordingly.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Can I borrow it?”

“You may. What a beautiful application of socialism you have brought me! I shall only be a moment in procuring it, Comrade Jellicoe, do not fear.”

Psmith slid off his bed and rooted around in his belongings for a minute or so before brandishing a singular page of Latin script and handing it off to Jellicoe.

“Here you are,” Psmith said chivalrously. “I trust this slightly rumpled version of the original will suffice. It pains me to see it, but there are several wrinkles on the page which may hinder its efficacy. Do keep me informed if you are unable to properly find use in it, Comrade. Otherwise, as they say, have at it.”

“Thanks, Smith.”

“Think nothing of it, Comrade.”

Psmith then climbed back in his bed and returned to his doodling. Jellicoe occupied himself by writing out the Latin onto another piece of paper in his neatest handwriting. Psmith’s page was alright, Jellicoe supposed, but it was typed by a typewriter whose ink was not evenly spread across the letters and thus it was rather difficult to discern the F’s from the E’s and the N’s from the M’s.

Some minutes later, Psmith left to use the facilities. Whilst he was away, Jellicoe finished copying out the Latin page and went to return it to Psmith’s belongings. He had just reached Psmith’s bed and was going to set the page down when he spotted that book Psmith had been doodling in laying open and face down. Curiosity spiked, he flipped it over.

Spread across the pages in Psmith’s odd handwriting were several alterations on the typical heart with initials written within, some done with an arrow piercing the heart and some done without. Jellicoe, being a boy interested in the drama and gossips of others while unwilling, himself, to get too involved in those sorts of things, was immediately intrigued. Checking to make sure Psmith was not at the moment emerging through the entryway, Jellicoe quickly inspected the doodles more closely.

“R.P. and M.J.,” Jellicoe mumbled to himself, giggling. “Hm. Who’s R.P.?”

Just then Jellicoe heard the telltale sounds of someone approaching the dormitory door and he hurriedly replaced the book and page on Psmith’s bed and leapt into his own just as Psmith walked back into the room.

“And so I return,” Psmith announced. “Have you been mourning too heavily, dear Comrade Jellicoe?”

 

~

 

Another occasion occurred not too long after that first one, though Jellicoe himself did not connect the two until much later after the entire ordeal had blown over.

On one greyish morning when the two were dressing in their dormitory, Mike asked out of the blue,  “Do you think Psmith’s got a sister?”

“I don’t know,” Jellicoe replied, pulling his trousers on. “You could ask him.”

“I suppose.” There was silence for a moment or two while Mike adjusted his socks. “I was just thinking, you know, since old Psmith’s so willowy and— _girlish—_ how any sister of his would end up a real looker.”

Jellicoe was very grateful that his face was turned from Mike’s at that moment, because an involuntary grin simpered his features before he could stifle it.

“What do you mean _girlish?_ He’s a chap, isn’t he? Look’s awfully like one, at any rate.”

Mike stumbled a bit for the right words. “You know what I mean—slender, fine-boned—has that complexion…”

“What complexion?”

“A girlish one! Stop playing the fool, Jellicoe, I know you know what I mean.”

“No I don’t!”

“Well, then you’re just thick. Haven’t you ever seen a handsome looking girl? Well, this is just the same except it’s a pretty looking boy.”

“Alright,” Jellicoe assented. “I suppose I never noticed it. What’s that got to do with anything, though?”

“I was just saying—oh, never mind.”

“Alright.”

 

~

 

Jellicoe received another clue while Mike was practicing cricket with the eleven and Psmith was lounging in the pavilion with Jellicoe leaning on the railing beside him.

“He’s awfully good,” Jellicoe commented as they watched Mike hit a ball quite high into the air.

Psmith awoke from a reverential state. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I was only saying Jackson’s awfully good.”

“So he is. I can only assume that is why he was picked for the team; though, then again, I cannot claim to understand the minute workings of Comrade Adair’s mind. Perhaps he thought the prestige of the Jackson family name would raise team morale, or perhaps he was interested to see whether Comrade Jackson would look at all fetching in cricket whites. One never can tell with these captains. They are such finicky beings, are they not?”

“I suppose.” Jellicoe then squinted out at the field for a while, trying to decipher what it was exactly that Psmith had said to him. He was a good enough chap, Jellicoe figured, but a bit on the queer side. Read too many books, was his problem.

Psmith coughed discreetly into his hand. “Comrade Jellicoe, I don’t suppose you are any good at keeping secrets?”

Jellicoe thought for a moment. “I’m alright. I won’t tell the masters, if that’s what you’re worrying about. Can’t promise I won’t tell my mum, though,” he added with a grin.

Psmith frowned. “No, that won’t do at all. This secret is rather more of a personal nature, you understand? One cannot go blabbing to one’s mother about this sort of thing, Comrade, or else one will find oneself at the receiving end of a rather lot of ire from yours truly. A regrettable circumstance, yet inevitable.”

Jellicoe blinked, unused to being threatened in such a roundabout way. “Alright, I think. I won’t tell my mum, then.”

“Nor your father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandmother, cousins, family friends, or parish vicar, neither, you understand?”

Jellicoe mimed locking his mouth and tossing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Now, what’s your secret?”

Psmith sighed wistfully and leaned an elbow on the railing. He looked rather like a gangly, adolescent version of [some Godward painting](https://proxy.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=http%3A%2F%2Fframingpainting.com%2FUploadPic%2FJohn_William_Godward%2Fbig%2FLeaning%2520on%2520the%2520Balcony.jpg&f=1). “I am struck, dear Comrade Jellicoe, by that illness which befalls even the best of us.”

“You’re ill?” Jellicoe startled backwards. “Is it contagious?”

Psmith smiled a trifle condescendingly. “Perhaps a small amount, though I believe you yourself would be immune. What troubles me is this: I pine. I long. I sit awake into the wee hours dreaming of a certain face. I have no confirmation that my love is returned. My cheek pales, and I waste away.” He gestured vaguely to his face. “Does it show, terribly? Are there dark rings beneath my eyes and a gaunt sunkenness to my cheeks? Does the strain of this world finally take its ghastly toll on my corpus? Tell me, Comrade, I can take it.”

“Wait up a moment, Smith,” Jellicoe said. “Are you saying you fancy someone?”

“Though that is not the phrase I would have chosen, yes. I fancy. I fancy so much, in fact, that the object of my affections ends up appearing godlike in even the most ridiculous attire.” He gestured vaguely towards the cricket field.

“Huh. Well. Good luck to you, I suppose.” Jellicoe, who had not understood any of Psmith’s hintings, scratched at his nose.

“Your wish is appreciated, Comrade. I shall do my best to pull through.”

“Alright.”

 

~

 

“I say, Willoughby?” Jellicoe jogged to catch up with the boy, who was just boarding his bike.

Willoughby looked up. “Hullo?”

“I say, you live down in the village, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” Willoughby said, a trifle warily. “What’s it to you? I don’t take orders for the pub, I’ll have you know, no matter what you’ll pay.”

Jellicoe coughed out a giggle. “No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to know if you knew any of the girls down there.”

Willoughby’s eyes popped out of his head just then, and he was obliged to stoop down and retrieve them from where they had rolled into the grass. “Girls!” he exclaimed in a righteously offended tone. “First they want ale, now girls! What sort of chap do you take me for, Jellicoe?”

“No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong! I just—listen here,” Jellicoe said, leaning towards Willoughby and lowering his voice. He cast a glance around to confirm they were alone. “I know a chap who’s gone potty over some girl but I don’t know her whole name. I only know that she’s either R.P. or M.J.”

“Either? What, does she try one on for the holidays?”

“Oh, shut it. I just don’t know which of the initials is hers.”

“And what makes you think I know?” Willoughby asked, adjusting his position on the bicycle. Standing in such a half-on, half-off manner was beginning to get uncomfortable.

“Well, you could ask around the village and find out if any of the girls have been seeing someone.”

“I don’t know, Jellicoe.”

“Just let me know if you find anything.”

“Alright,” Willoughby sighed. “But I’ve got to push off now. My mum’s put dinner on for six.”

 

~

 

Jellicoe sat down beside Psmith and Mike on the grass near the cricket pitch where the second eleven were practicing. Psmith was resolutely plowing through a Greek book of some sort that Jellicoe hadn’t seen on the required list while Mike picked listlessly at the grass and stared at the flies and bees swirling around. When Jellicoe sat beside them, Mike looked over and smiled blandly.

“Oh, hullo, Jellicoe.”

“Hullo. I say, Smith?”

Psmith squinted up at Jellicoe. “Hullo?”

“What’s your Christian name?”

Psmith made a face. “Horrendous.”

Mike snorted.

“No, I mean, what’s it really?”

“My Christian name is not something which I enjoy, Comrade Jellicoe, nor is it something which I believe the masses would benefit from knowing. Why is it, by the way, that you wish to know? Have I contracted some fatal disease without knowing it and must have my belongings sent by mail order to my loved ones? Have I some secret admirer who wishes to propose yet cannot for fear of saying the wrong moniker? I simply must know the occasion.”

Jellicoe, though not the quickest mind in his form, was not the slowest, either. He said proudly the first thing which came into his mind. “My mum wants to stitch you a patch with your name on it.”

Psmith blinked, then took his monocle out and polished it appreciatively. “My, my. You never informed us of your mother’s threaded inclinations, Comrade Jellicoe. You have been depriving us most cruelly of this profitable knowledge. I am left to wonder how we might have differed in our actions these past weeks had we known that you, Comrade Jellicoe, had a seamstress right at your fingertips?”

“For one, you probably wouldn’t have minded lending me your handkerchief when I had a nosebleed,” Mike mentioned pointedly.

“My dear Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, affronted. “That is not a matter of stitching, but rather one of staining. Comrade Jellicoe’s mother would have been of no use on that occasion.”

“She could stitch you a new handkerchief so you wouldn’t need to bother with the stained one.”

Psmith bowed his head. “You have, as ever, seen that which has eluded me. Your eyes are of the sharpest variety, Comrade Jackson, and your mind of the quickest.”

Jellicoe cleared his throat. “So what is it?”

“What is what, Comrade Jellicoe?”

“What’s your name?”

Psmith sighed in a put upon manner and raised his eyes heavenward. “’Tis a terrible burden I must bear, Comrade Jellicoe, and I would be obliged were you to promise me never to use this knowledge against me. Do you promise it?”

“Alright. Now, tell me.”

“Rupert,” Psmith groaned. “My name is Rupert.”

“Thanks, then.”

“It’s not even that bad,” Mike said as Jellicoe stood up to leave. “You could be named something like Wilberforce or some rot.”

“True, Comrade Jackson. Yet still it rankles.”

 

~

 

“Willoughby!” Jellicoe hissed as he ran up to the other boy the next morning before prayers. “I’ve got another clue for you!”

Willoughby sighed, trying to ascertain whether his friends were watching. “What is it, Jellicoe?”

“The girl’s initials. They’re only M.J.”

“Well, of course,” Willoughby scoffed. “There aren’t any girls with the initials R.P. in Lower Borlock. I thought I told you?”

“You didn’t,” Jellicoe muttered, offended. “Anyway, how do you know?”

“Because I asked around, you thickhead. And I think I know which girl it is, too.”

Jellicoe perked up. “Really? Who?”

Willoughby smirked and said, “A girl named Margot Jameson. She’s fifteen and lives two streets over from me. A real catch, too—pretty black hair, green eyes, the lot. Her brother says she’s been googly-eyed over somebody for the past two weeks.”

Jellicoe clapped Willoughby on the shoulder. Willoughby winced and moved slightly away. “Thanks, old chap,” Jellicoe said enthusiastically. “Let me know if you hear anything else!”

“Fine, yes,” Willoughby grumbled. “Now, buzz off!”

 

~

 

“Jellicoe, old chap, can you keep a secret?”

Jellicoe, who was lying in bed on his stomach, reading from a letter his father had written him, glanced over to Mike. “Sure I can. What is it?”

Mike paused. “It’s a rather important secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

Jellicoe sighed. This continual distrust of his secret-keeping abilities was beginning to chafe. “I know that. I’m not going to go blabbing, honest. You can trust me. I won’t even tell my mum.”

“Alright,” Mike said, mostly to himself. “Well, here it is. I think I fancy someone.”

Jellicoe grinned mischievously. “Oh, do you, rather? Who is it?”

“I’m not telling you!” Mike flushed.

“Can’t you give me a hint?”

Mike sighed. He did rather want to give Jellicoe a hint. “Alright. Here’s your hint. The person’s got dark hair.”

Instantly into Jellicoe’s mind flashed the words of Willoughby: _A real catch, too—pretty black hair, green eyes, the lot._ What if Mike fancied this Margot girl, too?! Oh, the tangled drama of it all. Jellicoe nearly burst from excitement. “Really? Dark hair? What about the eyes?” He fixed Mike with a suspicious glance. “She hasn’t got dark eyes, has she?”

“No,” Mike asserted with a shake of his head. “They’re light.”

“Hmm. I’ve half a mind to go investigating. First Smith, now you! The girls in this village must be something spectacular.”

Mike blinked. “What do you mean, ‘first Smith’? Does he fancy someone, too?”

Jellicoe sat up and started giggling. “Look here, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else. Smith said it was a secret.”

“Alright, I won’t tell. What is it?”

The two boys leaned towards each other in confidence. “ Smith,” whispered Jellicoe. “Has gone potty over a girl from the village.”

Mike frowned. “Do you know which one?”

“I think it’s Margot Jameson.” Jellicoe dropped this anvil on Mike’s head and watched for any signs of recognition.

“Oh, I know her,” Mike offered. “She goes to some of the cricket games. Huh. I suppose Smith met her there one time.” Mike looked somewhat forlorn. “Fancy Smith being potty over Margot. Well, blast. I suppose you never can tell.”

Jellicoe, pleased with himself for adding to this imbroglio, continued his perusal of his father’s letter.

 

~

 

Mike swallowed and set his book down.  “ I say, Smith?”

“Yes, Comrade Jackson?”

“Do you miss me playing in the village games? We never seem to go down there much anymore.”

Psmith considered this. While village games generally had better tea, there was something poignant about the spirit present at a school game. “The tea there is somewhat more pleasing, though I find that the passion of the audience is more vibrant at a Sedleigh game. Why? Are you considering dropping the team? Has Comrade Adair behaved insultingly?”

“No, I was just wondering… You _can_ go down to the village games without me, you know. I won’t be bothered if you miss one of mine.”

Psmith regarded Mike. This was a very unexpected situation. “I am aware of that. However, I rather prefer watching your games. You lend a certain  _je ne sais quoi_ to the atmosphere.”

“Thanks,” Mike stammered. “But don’t you miss the people from the village?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Really? You’re not rotting? You don’t miss anybody?”

Psmith frowned. “No, I am in perfect honesty, Comrade. While I  did indeed find certain personalities amusing, and some even half pleasant, I am not inclined to go down there simply to catch up with old acquaintances, especially at the loss of your own dear presence. I much prefer your company.”

“Well, thanks. Of course, I prefer your company, too, old man.”

Psmith smiled, somewhat confused but happy that they were stating this, at least. “Then we are on the same page. Let us put from ou r minds this business of my abandoning you for the population of Lower Borlock and turn to some happier topic. Would you like to discuss  _ Othello _ ?”

 

~

 

Jellicoe whistled. “Would you look at that? Adair’s finally cracked.”

Psmith looked up. His eyes traced the path of the cap that the cricket captain had hurled, a graceful arc through the air that ended in the branches of some mulberry tree. Adair then shook his fist threateningly in Mike’s face and stomped away. Jellicoe and Psmith waited several cautionary moments before stepping over to their friend.

“What on earth was that about?” Jellicoe asked. “Are you having another row with Adair?”

Mike ground his toe into the dirt. “There isn’t any row. It’s final. Adair just can’t handle the truth.”

“Pray tell, Comrade Jackson, what truth?” Psmith frowned minutely. “Have you been insulting our fair Comrade Adair with painful honesties about his mother’s appearance?  If so, you really must cease this behavior. It is most unbecoming in a gentleman. ”

Mike huffed. “I haven’t said anything insulting to him. All I said was that I’m quitting the team. If he doesn’t like that, then  he can go boil his head.” Mike then glared pointedly in the direction in which Adair had fled.

Psmith and Jellicoe shared a surprised glance. 

“You’ve quit the team again?” Jellicoe squeaked. “Adair’ll be furious!”

“He is.  Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Psmith laid a gentle hand on Mike’s shoulder. “My dear Comrade Jackson, are you feeling quite alright?”

Mike shook him off. “Yes, I am, as matter of fact. I’ve made my decision and that’s final. Have you got a problem with that?”

“No, of course not,” Psmith said. “You are, after all, completely autonomous. However, one is left to wonder whether this action was taken in the best frame of mind?” He raised a pointed eyebrow at Mike’s ever-pinker face.

“Will you  two  shut it?! I didn’t want to play for the school, is that so hard to imagine? Since when have you been all pomp and circumstance about Sedleigh, anyhow? I thought you preferred the village games.”

Psmith squinted. “Are you intimating that you quit the team so that I would not feel pressured into watching your games  over those in the village ?”

Mike hesitated, then grunted out, “Yes. So?”

“So?!” He glanced at Jellicoe in disbelief. “‘So?’ he says.” He turned back to Mike. “ _ So _ you have nearly ruined your chances at remaining on the school team over a misunderstanding.” Psmith placed a hand over his heart in sincerity. “Do not worry, Comrade Jackson, you have no need to go through with this decision. You may rescind your resignation and pull Comrade Adair back into your arms as one of your bosom pals, happy to play for King and Country—or, rather, School and Master. I do not know where you got the idea from, but I really do not prefer village games over school ones. The only reason why I would bother visiting our neighbours in Lower Borlock would be because you were playing there.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’ve quit.”

“Comrade Jackson, what is it with you and pushing me to the village? Have you some desire to be rid of me? If so, I would rather you said it plainly, rather than all this backwards manipulation.”

Jellicoe fidgeted somewhat. He was beginning to see that he had, perhaps, played a small hand in the situation. 

“I say, chaps,” he mumbled. He was ignored. Let it not be said, however, that the members of the Jellicoe clan do not persevere. He tried again, louder this time. “I say, chaps?”

Psmith and Mike paused, and stared at him.

“Yes, Jellicoe?” Mike prompted. “What is it?”

“I say,” Jellicoe stammered, “I rather think I’ ve caused this.  Dreadfully sorry. ”

“My dear Comrade Jellicoe,”  Psmith soothed, “have no fear. You have had no hand in these operations at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from the premises, in order that we may—“

“No, hang on a minute, Smith,” Jellicoe interrupted. “Let me say my fill. See, I know you told me  not to tell anyone about your secret—“

Psmith’s face blanched. “You didn’t,” he whispered, glancing at Mike.

“I’m afraid I rather did,” Jellicoe admitted. “I’m awfully sorry.  I saw those doodles you had made in your book and I—well, I told Jackson about it, and Willoughby, since he’s from the village. I didn’t know it would cause all this row.”

Psmith, looking more bilious by the second, seemed unsure whether to remain on the premises or whether to make a long arm for the closest shovel and bury himself in the ground. Mike was still hot under the collar  and huffed rather bluntly that he didn’t see why Psmith should be so sick about the whole thing, because the cat was out of the bag and he might as well take the bit of help that Mike was offering him instead of just gurgling there like a fish.

Psmith’s shoulders seemed to droop a fraction of an inch. Mike and Jellicoe were puzzled as to why he looked so crestfallen.

“I see,” Psmith said finally. “In that case, Comrades, I shall be off. Psmith is not a fool. He is not blind. He does not force his company upon unwilling parties. I see now that I am unwanted here. No matter. I am, of course, wounded, yet still vibrant. I bid thee  _ adieu _ .” He then wandered off.

Mike frowned. “What’s the matter with him? I thought he’d want to see that Margot Jameson girl more.”

“He is quite a queer chap,” Jellicoe offered in explanation.

“Yes,” Mike trailed off. Something wasn’t right.

 

~

 

“Smith, old man? Are you in here?” Mike opened the door to their study and peered in. He spotted Psmith collapsed into an armchair, one arm thrown despairingly over his eyes.

“Leave me be, Comrade. I require time to mourn. This prolonged good-bye is terribly painful.”

“What on earth are you on about, Smith? What’s all this about good-bye?”

Psmith sighed gustily. “Comrade, please. My nerves simply cannot take the strain. Be gone with thee,” he commanded with a weak wave of his free hand.

Mike shut the door behind him. “Look, I’m sorry if I wasn’t very tactful about the whole cricket thing, but don’t you want to see Margot? That’s all I was trying to do, Smith, honest. I just wanted you to feel like you could see her more without worrying you’d hurt my feelings. I’m sorry if I did it in a beastly manner. I suppose I’ve never been very good with that sort of thing, much.” He rubbed self-consciously at his nose.  “ Don’t be cross with me, though. I’m sorry.”

Psmith’s arm left his face, unveiling his slightly reddish and tearful-looking eyes. “I must say, Comrade, I understood about one-third of that whole  speech. Wherever did you get the idea that I was cross with you?”

“Well—there was that whole business with the secret and Jellicoe and then I didn’t handle the thing as nicely as I could have, I suppose. I don’t know, I just sort of assumed.”

“Ah. Well, to clarify, I am not actually cross with you.”

“Good.” Mike glanced at Psmith. “But what’s the matter? You look as if you’d been crying, old man. Is everything alright?”

Psmith slumped. “Must you twist the knife further?” he choked out. “Is it not enough that I am rejected? Must I also be humiliated before you are satisfied? I never knew you for a sadist, Comrade Jackson. This revelation is, I admit, not wholly unsatisfactory; though it appears less pleasant from this vantage point than others which I might imagine.”

“Blast it, Smith, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about, and I don’t suppose you have any idea what I just said, either.” Mike walked over and sat across from Psmith in the other armchair. “All I know is that I’ve somehow hurt your feelings and I’d rather like to fix that, if it’s all the same to you.”

Psmith slowly polished his monocle, then returned it to his eye. “It is alright, Comrade. One can accept life’s difficulties with a philosophical air. ‘ Respect the burden,’ as Napoleon once said.”

“No, but look here. I think Jellicoe’s told us each different stories. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have heard about your secret, but I don’t have any hard feelings against you and that Margot girl, truly. You’ve got to believe me, Smith. I can’t stand seeing you this upset.”

Psmith frowned slowly. “Pardon me, Comrade Jackson, but who is ‘that Margot girl’?”

“Margot Jameson?” Mike repeated. “Who is—hold on a minute. You don’t know who she is?”

“Who who is?”

“Margot Jameson! Then that means…” Mike groaned. “Oh, Smith, we’ve been played for fools.”

Psmith blinked. “I don’t quite grasp your meaning, Comrade. If you would elaborate?”

“Oh, good Lord, Smith—it’s ridiculous! Here I was trying to help you get together with Margot and you don’t even know who she is!” Mike chuckled. “I was a right fool for believing Jellicoe! My word…”

“Am I to take it, then, that you were under the impression that  _ Margot Jameson _ was the person that I fancied?” Psmith peered sharply through his eyeglass. “Did Jellicoe tell you that?”

“That he did, Smith, that he did.” Mike then had a thought. “Did—erm—did Jellicoe tell you anything about what I said?”

“No, he so kindly refrained from informing me at all about the subject.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s for the best.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I dare say I’ll have to apologize to Adair now.”

Psmith quirked a half-smile. “Indeed, that would be the kindest course of action. Poor Comrade Adair seemed about ready to give up the whole game and chuck himself into the river.”

“Did he really? Oh, well. He’ll get over it eventually.”

Psmith made a noise of agreement. “Comrade?” he asked after a moment. “What exactly did  Comrade  Jellicoe tell you about my secret?”

“Hm? Oh, he said that you fancied some girl from the village, and that her name was Margot Jameson. Why?”

“I was only wondering. It seems that he should only be punished for a half-lie, then, and not a full.”

Mike frowned. Psmith’s expression was unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“ I mean that half of what Comrade Jellicoe told you was true, and the other half false. I do indeed fancy someone. That someone is not, however, named Margot Jameson.”

“Oh, ah.” Mike faltered. He was not at all expecting to have this sort of conversation with Psmith. Mike had rather thought they’d moved past all that sentimentality earlier on. “That’s nice, I suppose.” It also chafed, somewhat, to hear it confirmed that Psmith did indeed fancy someone. Mike was by no means ready to admit to himself that he might be  _ jealous _ , exactly, but he could acknowledge that he was uncomfortable with the fact that Psmith’s attentions might be engaged elsewhere.

Psmith appeared to be waiting for something more.

“Is she nice?” Mike asked, attempting a friendly, if shuttered, smile.

That  queer look returned to Psmith’s countenance. He almost appeared to be frightened.  The color had risen to his cheeks, somewhat, and Mike caught himself staring. It wouldn’t do to pine after someone after they’d only just told you they were pining after someone else. Mike could accept that. He was a reasonable chap.

But, oh, if it didn’t sting.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith began awkwardly. He tried several times to say something, but  it never got farther than a faint gurgle.

Mike stared. “What?”

Psmith continued the gurgling.

“Are you alright?”

Psmith took out his handkerchief and dabbed feverishly at his brow. “I must confess,” he croaked, “that I rather thought this would be easier.”

“That what would be easier? What’s wrong?”

They were then rudely interrupted by a knock on the study door.

“I say, are you chaps in there?” Jellicoe’s voice filtered through. “I just wanted to apologize, if you don’t mind.”

Mike sighed. “You can come in, Jellicoe, the door’s not locked.”

Jellicoe came in. He absorbed the somewhat tense atmosphere and immediately bowed himself inwards, as if afraid that someone might strike him. “I just wanted to apologize,” he repeated. “I’ve been beastly, and I’m sorry.”

“You are utterly and completely forgiven, Comrade Jellicoe,” Psmith declared chivalrously, “but I rather think I shall keep my secrets to myself from now on, if you do not mind.”

Jellicoe smiled sheepishly. “No, that’s alright. Sorry to you, too, Jackson. I didn’t mean to cause a row.”

“It’s alright, Jellicoe. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Jellicoe, satisfied, then exited the study. Mike and Psmith were, once more, alone.

“ I say, Smith,” Mike stammered. “What did you mean earlier about being humiliated? Surely, whatever girl you fancy can’t be that ugly, can she?” He let out a breathy chuckle.

Psmith’s face was downcast. His fingers did not actually twiddle, but they came about as close as any fingers connected to the brain of the great Psmith might. Overall, the boy looked positively bashful.

Mike, however, was not looking at Psmith. No, his eyes were instead trained studiously on the carpet as his brain ran through several credit and debit scenarios. On the credit side, he reasoned to himself, he would finally know if Psmith reciprocated his feelings and could come to some sort of closure about the whole deal. On the debit side, though, what if Psmith pushed him off and didn’t want to speak to him again? That would be right awful and Mike didn’t know what he’d do if that happened. Let it not be said, however, that the members of the Jackson clan back down from a challenge. Mike gathered himself, and spoke.

“I say, I suppose I should let you in on my secret, as well, now.”

Psmith raised his gaze. “Oh? Do tell, Comrade, I am simply perishing from curiosity.”

“Well,” Mike huffed with a deep breath, “I rather fancy someone, too.”

“Comrade, you absolutely cannot leave it at that,” Psmith asserted, yet his tone was rather bland. “I require elaboration on your part, or else I shall lie awake, growing thinner and thinner, consumed with intrigue about this apple of your eye. Do go on.”

Mike chuckled half-heartedly. “Alright. Well, I suppose it’s only fair… It’s just—Smith, I rather fancy you.”

Psmith’s jaw did not drop, nor did his eyes sport from their sockets. Overall, the only physical indication that he had just received such an anvil dropped onto his head was the way his monocle popped out of his eye and landed with a bounce on the cushion of the armchair on which he was sitting.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Mike said. “I know it’s—not…fair, after what you told me.”

“After what I told you?” Psmith croaked.

“Yes, rather. I don’t expect anything from you, I just thought it would be proper to let you know.” Mike’s freckles stood out in contrast to the deep blush that was blooming across his cheeks and forehead. “I can—I can leave, now, to let you think, if you’d like. I can—I don’t have to come back…” He pushed himself upright and stumbled out the door.

Psmith sat for a long moment, steeping in regret. He berated himself in nearly every possible way  for not having enough nerve to simply choke the words out or pat Mike’s knee or smile or give any indication at all that he was fine with Mike’s revelation, that he, in fact, was rather so inclined about Mike’s person, and was very much willing to engage in hazy acts of intimacy with him. Just as he got to about beratement number seventy-eight, he heard the door open again. He looked up and beheld Mike, with the light from the hallway shining in like a halo around him. Psmith quite nearly fell over, despite being seated.

“I say,” Mike blurted. “I rather think—oh, blast.”

He came over to Psmith and kissed him, a chaste yet hard action which left both parties somewhat reeling. It was at this point that Mike rather lost his train of thought.

Psmith, having just spent about forty-five seconds criticizing himself for lack of pluck, was fully prepared and bucked up to do what he did next. He pulled his arms around Mike’s shoulders and crushed him down in an embrace.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith breathed. “I apologize for not being as lucid as would have been best. I believe it would be wise were I to explain why, exactly, Comrade Jellicoe believed I fancied Margot Jameson.”

Mike thought that about the least wise course of action he could think of, yet remained silent in due deference to his friend.

“I had been a touch foolish with my actions, leaving open and in plain sight a book, within which were several juvenile scribblings. Most of them were of hearts. All of them included some version of the pair of initials: R.P. and M.J. I’m sure you can make the necessary mental leap to understand what followed.”

Mike huffed out a laugh. “Did you really do that?”

“Indeed I did,” Psmith admitted. “It seemed rather more of a good idea at the time.”

Mike pressed his forehead into Psmith’s shoulder. 

“You’re such a sap,” he teased fondly.

Psmith then went into a rather long-winded explanation of why his actions were completely reasonable, given the circumstances, and how many romantic and, as some would claim,  _ sappy _ individuals—namely poets, authors, and actors—had had many successes when using their less-than-coldly-rational behavior in order to woo their prospective interests. Mike  stopped him with a second kiss, much longer and slightly less chaste than the original.

Psmith spoke again when they pulled away for breath. “Comrade Jackson, that was one of the lowest maneuvers I have ever seen in my life. Did you simply kiss me to end that beautifully constructed argument?”

“Perhaps,” Mike confessed. “But did you mind?”

Psmith squinted at the strong-jawed, somewhat cocky face before himself. He considered. He weighed options. He came to a decision.

“No, Comrade. I did not mind.”

Mike kissed his cheek.

 

~

 

Psmith curled himself under the crook of Mike’s arm. His head rested in the corner between Mike’s neck and jaw and he traced lazy circles along Mike’s arm with his fingertips. The two were squished together on one of the armchairs, blissfully oblivious to the rest of the school, and world. That was a trifle unfortunate.

“I say, chaps, I think I’ve rather lost my—AUGH! I’m sorry! I’ll leave!”  Jellicoe hurried back down the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: may not have been clear, but the way I saw it was that Mike calls Psmith "girlish" not because Psmith is, like, overly feminine or anything, but more because he's not quite yet at the point where he can admit that he finds him _attractive_ , per se, so he just goes for the closest thing his mind provides, which is girlish. Anyway.
> 
> hmu with other fic ideas [here](https://ask.fm/nimiumcaelo)!


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